Borrowed Dreams (Scottish Dream Trilogy) (4 page)

“His lordship had that already this
morning!” Gibbs exploded, quickly lowering his voice to a fierce whisper. “’Tis
not to be given any bloody time ye fancy giving it to him.”

“Aye, sir. But what he had weren’t
enough.”

“If I had the time right now to
wring your necks and kick ye from here to…” Gibbs tried to compose himself. “But the lack of time is going to save yer bloody arses. The company is already downstairs, and
he’s still not dressed.”

“’Tis only a minute or two that
he’s calmed ‘imself.”

Scowling at them, he motioned for
the two men to follow him as he moved to the earl’s chair. “M’lord?”

Lyon’s gaze never wavered from the
window. He was neither asleep nor awake. Gibbs closed the shutters and stepped
in front of the sitting man again.

“We need to get you ready for
company, m’lord.”

The earl’s face was blank as he
looked up at the three men now standing before him.

“Lady Wentworth and her lawyer have
arrived, sir,” the earl’s manservant said calmly, pulling the blanket off the
man’s unmoving legs. “The bishop has been waiting in the library an hour. Ye’re
expected, m’lord.”  

One of the valets reached down to
undo the buttons of the double-breasted dressing gown. Perceiving the scowl
being directed at him by his ailing master, he stopped and shrank back a step. 

“Put me in the bed,” Lyon growled in slurred tones.

“I cannot, m’lord. Her ladyship insisted
that we should have ye ready.”

With no thought for the legs that
did not move—that had not supported him in months—the Earl of Aytoun pushed
himself up from the chair. Before the hands of his panicked servants could
reach him, he fell heavily to the floor.

“Bloody hell…!”

“…landed on ‘is right arm!”

“Help me roll him off it.” Gibbs
was down on his knees beside the earl in an instant.

“I ‘eard the doctor say he’d have a
surgeon amputate if that arm breaks again.”

Gibbs flashed John a killing look for
his comment and gently turned the earl over.

Lyon Pennington was as large a man
as Gibbs. His months of confinement had detracted somewhat from his prior
robustness, but moving him still required several men. Even more when he was
not in the best of temperaments.

“M’lord, if I may remind ye…” Gibbs
gingerly bent and straightened the earl’s right arm. The bone didn’t appear to
be broken again. “Your lordship promised the dowager that ye would go through
with this plan of hers.”

“Put me back in bed.” Anger was woven tightly into the words that escaped his lips. His good hand formed a fist and
pounded once on the floor. “Now!”

“Your mother had another sick spell
last night, m’lord. We had to send for the doctor.” Gibbs crouched nearby,
knowing better than to maneuver the earl when his anger was on the edge of
exploding. The man’s blue eyes were boring holes in the manservant’s head. “The
only thing pushing her from her sickbed this morning was your promise to abide
by her wish. If she hears that ye have decided to throw it all down the well,
then that could be the last straw. If ye please, m’lord, her ladyship has gone
to a great deal of trouble to arrange this for ye. I’m thinking ye might give
her a wee bit of peace for the few days she might have left in this world.”

Whether it was the sedating
medicine the valets had administered earlier or the realization on the earl’s
part that he had few choices left, Gibbs couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, the
servant was relieved when Lyon Pennington did not fight them when they lifted
him again into the chair.

“And what of this woman, Gibbs?” he
muttered. “Do you think this new bride of mine will ever have so much as a
moment’s peace?”

Jasper Hyde pulled his pocket watch
from his waistcoat and looked at it. It was nearly three in the afternoon,
though there was no sign of his blasted clerk or Platt, either.

White’s Club was crowded, as it was
every day, and Hyde glanced around at the other gentlemen. He was beginning to
recognize some of the faces of the players and the others who simply milled
about drinking and being entertained by the sight of those intent on losing
their fortunes. It didn’t seem to matter what time of day it was here; the card
and dice table's were nearly always full. Hyde knew, though, that the crowd
would soon start to thin as some went off to the dinners and parties and the
many other vices that London offered in abundance.

Hyde stared at the dice cup in the
Earl of Winchelsea’s hand. He himself had already lost more than he cared to,
but he knew it was well worth it to be rubbing shoulders with such members of
the
ton
. And it didn’t hurt to lose money to them, either.

“All bets down,” the periwigged
croupier called in a bored voice.

Behind the man, by the large open
hearth, a harpist and horn player were playing, and the director was upbraiding
a servant for being slow with his delivery of a bottle of wine to a hazard
table in the corner.

Lord Winchelsea rattled the dice
once more for luck and rolled them out onto the table.

“Seven.” The men crowded around the
table responded with groans and shouts of victory, depending on their wagers,
and Hyde watched Winchelsea smile arrogantly as the dice were passed back to
him.

 “Now
this
is what I call a
celebration,” Winchelsea said to the Earl of Carlisle, standing to his left.
The other nobleman snorted in response, and Winchelsea smiled at Jasper Hyde.
“Still betting with my erstwhile friend here, Hyde?”

The plantation owner glanced down
at the quickly dwindling sum before him. Hyde knew the young earl had easily
lost three thousand pounds this week. Winchelsea’s luck, however, had
definitely turned today.

“If you don’t mind, m’lord, I
believe I shall wager with you.”

“Smart move, Hyde. By the way, I have reserved a private room at Clifton’s Chophouse down by the Temple Bar before we go on to Drury Lane. Care to join us there for dinner?”

“I would be delighted.” Extremely
pleased at being included, Hyde doubled his initial wager on the table.

“Considering your good news today,
you should invite everyone here for dinner,” Lord Carlisle challenged.

“Damn me, but you’re right about
that, Carlisle. You can all come.” Winchelsea started rattling the dice cup
amid of the loud laughter and calls of approval by those gathered around the table.

“If I maybe so bold as to ask,
m’lord, what is the nature of your good news?”

Carlisle answered Hyde’s question.
“Rumor has it that our friend’s chief nemesis is escaping to the country first
thing in the morning.”

“Aytoun is leaving London?” someone said from across the room.

“Carried away from London, to be more accurate,” Lord Carlisle answered.

“Finally sending him to Bedlam, are they?” the same person asked.

“Despite my heartfelt
recommendation, no.” Winchelsea shook the cup more savagely. “But he is being sentenced to a lifetime of imprisonment all the same. We hear that he is getting
married again this afternoon.”

“All bets down,” the croupier
intoned.

“What simpleton would give their
daughter to him?” another person asked. “Didn’t he kill his first wife?”

“That was only an unsubstantiated
rumor,” Carlisle said in defense of the absent nobleman. “No truth to it
whatsoever.”

“I disagree with that,” Winchelsea
argued, putting the cup of dice on the table. “Having faced the man’s brutal
temperament, I find him perfectly capable of murdering his wife.”

“You faced Aytoun’s
brutal
temperament because you were dallying with his wife,” Carlisle scoffed. “And you just say that now because he was the only man to best you in a duel. You’ve only just lately
stopped complaining of the shoulder wound you sustained against him. If you’d
beaten him, I say you would not be slandering him with such accusations.”

“Are you accusing
me
?” Winchelsea
challenged hotly.

“No…and you shan’t convince me to
face you in the park in the crack of dawn, either, my friend.” Carlisle handed the cup of dice back to the earl. “I say we continue with our celebration
and let Aytoun and his new wife just go to hell.”

Voices rose in agreement around the
table at that. Still scowling at his friend, Winchelsea grudgingly took the cup
and rolled out the dice.

“Six,” the croupier declared,
handing back the dice.

Carlisle smiled smugly. “Hope this
doesn’t mean your luck has changed.”

“Wishful thinking on your part.”

“Next we’ll be hearing that your
tailor’s at the door waiting to be paid.”

“You are the devil himself, Carlisle, to wish such horrible things upon me.”

Paying no regard to the give and
take of the two men, Hyde closely followed the roll of the dice across the
table again.
Seven.
Winchelsea’s violent curse was mild compared to how
Hyde felt at that moment. Losing five hundred guineas at a single throw might
be insignificant among this group of gentry, but for Hyde it was another link
in a lengthening chain of bad luck. 

The plantation owner held his
breath as a stabbing pain suddenly wracked his chest and shoulders. Hyde waited
until the spasms subsided. He knew they would pass, and he did not want to draw
any attention to them. Occurring with no warning and more and more frequently
of late, the sharp pains came and went, but not before draining him of his
vigor. He leaned on the table.

The dice cup passed on to Lord
Carlisle, and once again wagers were being laid on the table. Turning his head,
Hyde was relieved to see his lawyer finally appear at the doorway. He made his
excuses at the table and made his way across the room to where Platt stood
waiting. Without saying a word, the lawyer led him down the stairs to where the
clerk, Harry, stood squirming just inside the front door.

A servant handed Hyde his cane and
hat and gloves and helped him on with his overcoat. All the while, Hyde kept
his gaze fixed on his servant.
The pain in his chest had started to ease
a little, but the air in his chest was scarce. 

Hyde motioned to the two new
arrivals to follow him into a small chamber beside the entryway. It was obvious
that all had not gone as planned.

“Where is she?”

Platt closed the door of the
chamber before breaking the news. “Harry was not able to buy the slave woman.”

Rage, like a strong gust of wind,
rushed through him in a single sweep. The clerk shrank back against the wall as
the end of Hyde’s cane jabbed him hard in the chest. “You had your
instructions. All you had to do was to continue to bid on her until you won her.”

“I did, sir. But the price kept
climbing.”

“Lady Wentworth showed up at the
auction unexpectedly,” Platt offered from a safe distance.

“I couldn’t win the woman, sir, but
I made her ladyship pay a fortune for her. She was a worthless refuse slave.”

Jasper Hyde’s fury boiled over, and
he struck the man hard on the side of the head with the cane. “
You
are
the worthless refuse. I should turn you out now. Did you hear nothing of what I
told you before? Your specific instructions were to bid up and win that slave.
What worry is it of yours about the price?”

“But she went for a hundred ten
pounds, master,” Harry blurted out, rubbing his head with one hand and ready to
deflect the next blow with the other. “And the crowds were against me. They
thought I was pushing the price up on Lady Wentworth and took her side, sir. I
looked for yer carriage, but ye and Mr. Platt here were nowheres to be seen. I
never thought ye’d be meaning to go anywhere above fifty pound. But I braced myself and went double, and—”

The cane flashed again, striking
the clerk on his upraised wrist and causing him to howl in pain.

“This will solve nothing,” Platt
said nervously. “There are other ways of getting the slave back.”

Jasper Hyde labored to breathe as
he sank onto a nearby chair. He gripped his cane with both hands and tried to
fight the pain that was once again raging through him. 

“It is fortunate that Lady
Wentworth was the one winning the slave,” Platt offered reasonably.
“She
owes you a fortune in promissory notes. And she has no credit available to her
at all. She bid five times the value of the slave woman and might not even have
enough funds available to pay for the purchase. Either through Dombey’s
creditors or Lady Wentworth’s lawyer, I could have the slave woman in your
possession by the end of the week.”

Hyde considered that for a moment,
waiting for the pain to pass. When he stood up, the clerk, Harry, cowered against the wall. The plantation owner turned to Platt.

“You make certain of that,” Jasper
Hyde instructed his lawyer. “Time is running short.”

*****

The articles lay before her on the
brick hearth of the small fireplace. They were no more than a few things
Ohenewaa had been able to hide in the sleeves of her ragged shift. A few
stones, the crumbled broken bark of a tree, some dried leaves, a small satchel
with a few strands of hair. The old woman poured a few drops of water onto the
hearth and placed a small piece of bread as an offering next to the charms. She
had much for which to give thanks, and she knew the spirits were listening as
she knelt by the makeshift altar.

Reaching into the hearth, Ohenewaa
took a fistful of warm ashes and spread them on her face and hands and arms.
The ancient chant started low in her chest. Rocking back and forth where she
sat, she thanked the Supreme Being, Onyame, for her deliverance from Jasper
Hyde. She chanted her gratitude for having the shackles once again removed from
her hands and feet and neck.

What was to become of her was still
a mystery. She had been delivered to the office of the lawyer, Sir Oliver Birch, in the early afternoon. The tall Englishman had the name of a tree, she thought. Perhaps
he had a soul, as well.